My Muse
by Lone Draco
Summary: RENT fic. That was the thing about music, he explained, it had to listen to him and fit his will (markroger)


- My Muse By: Lone Draco Rating: PG-13 (Language/ Mature situations)  
  
AN: My first Rent fic. Mark/Roger, but with mention of April/Roger and Mimi/Roger. Hope you enjoy and please review.  
  
Timeline to help you:  
  
12 years previous – Mark lives with his father in Kent, Roger is not on the scene yet. Mark is 15  
  
10 years previous – Mark meets Roger. Mark is now living with his mother, they both live in Kent.  
  
9 years previous – The boys run away to New York  
  
4 years previous – The boys have lived in New York for 5 years, still pre- rent, Roger is dating April  
  
2 years previous – 3 months after Rent. Roger and Mark begin their relationship. Mimi has died.  
  
Present – 2 years, 3 months post Rent. Roger and Mark have been an "item" the entire time.  
  
Hope that helped.  
  
With no further ado  
  
-My Muse By: Lone Draco  
  
The air in the bar was thick with smoke from dozens of cigarettes. I that is, Mark Cohen, shifted in the rickety and moth-eaten chair, my hands wrapped around a scratched and dull glass filled with slightly yellowing water. Needless to say it was not the cleanest of places, and not one I had planned on visiting in my lifetime. But, Roger had asked me to be here in a slightly cryptic and reserved way – odd for my normally blunt friend – and I had the sinking suspicion that this was going to be an interesting night indeed. I sipped on the water, then quickly wished I hadn't done so, spitting the offensive liquid back into the glass. Suddenly stage lights made their way through the fog of smoke. I looked up to the stage, searching for someone...something. And there, clad in black from head to toe (black leather jacket, cotton t-shirt, black pants adorned with chains and zippers, in what I personally perceived as odd places, and his well worn black combat boots) was Roger. His chin-length chestnut hair hid his face from the crowd.  
  
He pulled the familiar black fender forward, taking a seat on an unsteady stool and tuning. He leaned forward, the mic picking up his breath before he spoke.  
  
"Mark...you're probably not here, I wouldn't blame you if you weren't...but, if you are..." he paused, and I knew he couldn't see me - blinded by the stage lights as he was – but he seemed to be looking anyway, "I know it's a cover and not something I wrote, but you see...without you – my muse – it's the best I can do," He cast his eyes to the ground for a moment, drew a breath and then began to sing in that rough black velvet voice a sad little filmmaker had fallen in love with.  
  
(Yesterday Morning)  
  
"For God's sake Mark! You were the one who started this group! You brought me out of Kent for your dreams and this is how you repay me? Selling out to Benny? I should have known!"  
  
"Roger, I'm tired of eating nothing but crackers, I'm tired of sitting and waiting for Benny to shut off our heat or our power, and I'm god-damn sick of listening to you say I'm selling out! I'm doing this for you!"  
  
"Fine, play the fucking martyr Mark, at least one of us can see what's going on!"  
  
"Martyr? I'm the fucking Martyr? Who brought you back from your lovely withdrawals? TWICE? Who had the fucking patience to coax you away from death and drugs because you can't fucking continue living when your women leave!?!"  
  
"How dare you bring Mimi and April into this!" His eyes blazed at me, voice rising to a volume I had heard him only use towards Benny before, "You're no better than them, and maybe I was wrong! Maybe instead of working with Benny you're fucking him!"  
  
"WHAT? God Damn you Roger! I am not Mimi! I have never lied to you or betrayed your trust!" I was equally mad now – how dare he accuse me of sleeping with Benny? – "Is that your excuse for being mad in every relationship Roger? Oh no! You're sleeping with Benny! At least come up with something original," my tone was more scathing than I meant it to be and I saw hurt flicker across his hazel eyes before he quickly pushed it aside for anger.  
  
"How dare you...HOW DARE YOU!" He raises his hand back, as if to hit me and I cringe back, knowing full well he could easily over-power me. "FINE! FINE! IF YOU WANT TO SELL OUT, SO BE IT!" he lowered his hand, entire body shaking with rage.  
  
"GOD DAMN YOU ROGER! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST FUCKING UNDERSTAND ME !?! " Roger slammed the door to his room; cursing back at me he went. I sank slowly into the couch, cradling my head in my hands. I had done it now, pissed him off to the point I was rather sure he'd never speak to me again. I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyes and tried to fight them back, I couldn't cry now, it'd prove to him that I was just as weak as he thought.  
  
We'd been having the same fight for weeks. Roger was convinced I was selling him out by going to work for a film company. Convinced I would follow in Benny's footsteps. I simply wanted us to have enough money to afford something besides crackers and captain crunch. We had reached the climax of our disagreement today, he finally choosing to flat-out accuse me of selling out to Benny, and that I had always supported the Cyber-arts studio idea. I had stood up for myself for once, arguing back, using every attack I could think of. I had been unfair...as he had...and I would be quite amazed if we spoke again.  
  
(Later that night)  
  
I hadn't remembered falling asleep on the couch. But it had been morning when Roger holed up in his room, and the darkness outside the blinds was trying to convince my mind that now it was night, or at least late evening. I rose and massaged the kinks out of my neck, a cold fear settling into my stomach. I had chased him away. I knew it. I slowly walked over to his door, absently brushing the old tears from my eyes.  
  
I knocked, expecting a angry response and was more than surprised when I did not receive one. I knocked again, harder.  
  
"Roger?" no response. Thousands of horrible situations flashed through my mind, had he killed himself? Bought drugs and shot up? Sleeping? Knocked out on some heavy meds? I pressed on the door, dreading what I would see, but instead of the gruesome picture I expected there was a note. A simple white piece of paper pinned to his pillow.  
  
Mark,  
  
If you'll give me a chance...The swan bar at 7:00 tomorrow...I'll stay with Collins tonight. Come if you want, stay home if you want. 7:00 pm.  
  
-Roger  
  
It was vague and very un-Roger-like, but I decided to humor him and the next night, at 6:30 I found myself wandering into the run-down bar.  
  
(Present)  
  
"You've got a fast car - I want a ticket to anywhere; Maybe we can make a deal; Maybe together we can get somewhere; Any place is better; Starting from zero got nothing to lose; Maybe we'll make something; Me myself I've got nothing to prove"  
  
His voice was strong, pulsing over the tiny crowd but I felt as if he was whispering the words directly into my ear. It was a song he had sung to me before, "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman. He would play it and explain how it reminded him of our lives. When I (interestingly enough) had a car, not fast or flashy, but to two teenage boys with wanderlust, it was everything. It was our ticket to anywhere, and the reason I met him in the first place.  
  
(10 Years Previous – Kent, Connecticut – Falls Village High School)  
  
It was just after the school's first ever open-mic attempt. Maureen had sung a piece she called "Beyond the Stars" (something about stars and monkeys and selling out) and I had been working backstage, stage-managing. I saw the new kid just before he went on, black Fender clenched in his hand, nervous hazel eyes and chocolate hair. He sang some song about life and not having anything to prove and living and I wished, for once, that I had been in the audience to hear it properly.  
  
After the show I stayed to help clean, organizing the wings and helping check-in the costumes that the school had lent out. The show had ended at 10, Maureen had stopped bothering me around 10:30 and after checking my watch I confirmed that it was now 11:30. Pulling my ever-present red and white scarf tighter and pushing my glasses back up to their proper position I retrieved my best friend – my camera – and left the theatre. It was frigid outside, the sky hinting at snowing. Perfect, my car HATED starting in the cold weather and I would probably end up sitting there, in the cold, with a car that refused to start. Movement in the corner of my eye caused me to turn. The new kid, Roger I believed was his name, huddled over his Fender, rubbing his hands together for warmth, but still managing to shiver. I had a momentary battle with my conscience and relented, walking over to him.  
  
"Whatcha waiting for?" I asked, plopping down beside him as the first flakes of snow began their decent.  
  
"Some way to get home," he chuckled, obviously trying to laugh the fact he had no ride off, "Thought the buses would be running this late, but apparently not," he chuckled again, a shiver interrupting it this time.  
  
"Hey, listen, I've got a car...I can give you a ride home." He looked up quickly, thanks written across his face. He smiled and my stomach lurched slightly. "Come'n, it's not a problem, let's go!" I stood and offered him a hand. He took it and stood and I realized how tall he actually was, towering over my own meager height.  
  
"You got a name?" he asked, flashing that smile again.  
  
"Mark, and yours?" I extended a hand. He took it and with a firm shake I gained a new best friend.  
  
"Roger, Roger Davis"  
  
"Well, Mr. Davis...let us start something,"  
  
(Present)  
  
"You've got a fast car; I've got a plan to get us out of here; Been working at the convenience store; Managed to save just a little bit of money; We won't have to drive too far,; Just 'cross the border and into the city; You and I can both get jobs; And finally see what it means to be living."  
  
The song washed over me, trapping me in the spell of Roger's music. He was in his element now, performing for a crowd of avid listeners (or people so drunk they didn't know the difference between good music and rubbish) and me. The music drags me back to that little town of Kent, to the day of our escape.  
  
(9 years previous – Kent, Connecticut)  
  
"Come'n Mark! We can't stay here for eternity! Break the rules, I KNOW you don't want to go to that preppy college your dad has you going to! Come'n! You've got the fast car, and I've got the plan!" I raised an eyebrow. Roger's plans tended to get us both into great amounts of trouble and I normally was the one to charm our way out of the punishments we should have gotten. After all, Mark was the good one, always did his work, always on time, never skipped class, never put a single toe out of line.  
  
"A plan? Roger...you know how your plans have worked in the past..." I trailed off just as he began speaking again.  
  
"Listen, I've been working at the convenience store down the road," I stared, Roger...working? The concept was a foreign one to me, "Oh don't look so surprised camera-man." He chuckled, that ringing sound that had a very unusual affect on me. It made me want to bend the stars and moon just to hear it again...perplexing to say the least. I pushed my glasses up on my nose again, brow wrinkled in what Roger had named the 'rather adorable and all-too-flattering way'.  
  
"You've got 2 minutes, sell me," He grinned and let off into his spiel.  
  
"I've managed to save a little bit of money, enough to get us a one-room apartment for a few months. You won't have to drive too far, just across the border into New York. We can finally follow our dreams Marky! I'm 18...I can sign all the papers to get us the loft, we'll both get jobs to pay our rent, and we'll finally see what it means to be living!" He smiled again and I began to ponder the idea. I did want to avoid the private catholic college my parents had enrolled me in, to major in business, and I had every desire to get out of Kent.  
  
"Let's do it," The look on his face was priceless, he had expected me to fight him, I'm sure he had a dozen arguments to present. "Come'n Rog, let's get out of this town!" He whooped and grabbed me into his arms, crushing me in a rather forceful hug. He pulled back, eyes filled with joy and life and suddenly his mouth was on mine, lips melding with mine, his tongue demanding entrance. I squeaked and he pulled back, as if just realizing what he had done.  
  
"Sorry Marky...oh god, I'm sorry. I got caught up in the excitement of it all. Oh Jesus Mark, I've ruined it," He looked so scared, so terrified at what he had done that I couldn't find it in me to be mad. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.  
  
"Don't do it again, Lover-boy!" I teased and with a gleeful laugh I jumped into the car, patting the seat beside me. "Get in already!" He laughed, and threw something at my head, but climbed into the car and with music blaring we left the town of Kent behind us.  
  
(Present)  
  
"You see my old man's got a problem; He live with the bottle, that's the way it is; He says his body's too old for working; I say his body's too young to look like his; My mama went off and left him; She wanted more from life than he could give; I said somebody's got to take care of him; So I quit school and that's what I did."  
  
This verse was always from my perspective he said. My dad had been an alcoholic, and my mother had left, fed up with his behavior every night. At the custody hearing they asked me who I wanted to live with - how can a 15 year old boy who can't even decide his sexuality decide which parent he loves more – and instead of deciding for my own sake I chose my father, he needed someone to take care of him.  
  
He wouldn't work and so I had to leave school early each day, on the working plan (or whatever they called it) to wait tables at the Stroble Baking Co. to bring in enough money to feed something besides his addiction. I think he was the reason I was so mad at Roger when I found out he was using – I had seen what an addiction could do a family.  
  
I took care of his rotting hide until one night he came home with a girl almost a third his age. I had just come home from a rather tiring day of work and he was as drunk as ever.  
  
(12 years previous – Kent, Connecticut – Cohen Trailer)  
  
It had been a long day, the cook kept messing up orders and I was forced to take the blame. I had gotten a grand total of .50 cents in tips out of the almost 20 people I had served and my boss had called me in to tell me that if I didn't pick up on my job he'd have to let me go. When I had finally reached the house it was all I could do to get inside and fall onto the couch, head in my hands.  
  
He came in minutes later, the ditzy blonde clinging to his side. Her make-up was over-done and her skirt (and shirt) were all but non-existent. He had a hand around her waist, and another on the bottle.  
  
"Boy!" I looked up. With him it was never Mark, or Marky, I would have even preferred kid, but it was always an impersonal 'Boy' "You get any money today?" I shook my head, opting to stay mute instead of provoking his temper, "What do you mean no? You slacking off at work?" his voice was growing louder, and the blonde was moving away from him. "You slacking off boy?!?" I shook my head again. "YOU ANSWER ME WHEN I ASK YOU A QUESTION!" He lurched forward, but I was quicker, moving out of his way.  
  
"No sir, I didn't get any money today," I stood in the corner, attempting to look as small as possible. He turned to the blonde.  
  
"You see how useless he is? Fucking useless," he took a long drink from the bottle, "Probably hanging with one of his boyfriends instead of working. Fucking faggot," I felt the anger begin to boil in the base of my stomach and beyond better judgment I responded to his anger.  
  
"Useless? USELESS? Who is the one who is working to keep food on the table? Who the FUCK is taking responsibility for this pathetic excuse for a family, who cleans up your vomit and your mess and makes sure you don't fucking starve? I'm done with this!" my voice had risen as I spoke, just below a yell now and I was standing toe-to-toe with the man I had been afraid of since I had first seen him.  
  
"What did you say boy?" his voice was quiet, dangerous, but I took no head, responding when I probably should have been silent.  
  
"I'M DONE WITH THIS!" I screamed, attempting to push past him, "AND MY NAME IS MARK! I'M YOUR FUCKING SON!" He raised his hand and backhanded me before I could say another word. The world exploded into a bright white light and I slammed into our coffee table and I heard a sickening crack in my arm. Before everything faded to black I heard him say to the blonde,  
  
"No son of mine back-talks me baby, remember that,".  
  
The next morning I woke up to a throbbing pain in my arm and an empty house. I struggled to my feet and called the cops. I was going to live with my mom and I made a vow to myself. I'd never speak to my father again, so long as I lived.  
  
(Present)  
  
"You've got a fast car; But is it fast enough so we can fly away? We gotta make a decision;  
  
We leave tonight or live and die this way"  
  
Roger's voice soared over those gathered in the bar, brushing over my ears and I found tears pricking at my eyes. Oh how I would fly away with you Rog. He always said the decision we made was when I helped him quit, helped him through withdrawal.  
  
(4 years previous – New York – Mark's Loft)  
  
The snow had been falling for days now, blanketing everything in cold. I hadn't seen Roger in weeks, ever since April had strutted into the picture. Bitch. I grinned cynically at my thought. Rog and I had been perfect until that night at the club when she showed up and offered him what I had been to scared to even think about.  
  
He'd moved out a month or so ago, said he'd call. Forgot I hated the phone, just like he forgot our friendship. I looked out the window again, and was shocked to see a figure stumbling through the white drifts of snow. He wasn't wearing a jacket and he looked as lost as I'd ever seen someone. He stumbled again, and this time simply sank to his knees. The man looked up, hazel eyes searching blankly for something, someone.  
  
"MARK!" oh god. Roger! "Mark...oh Mark," He began to shudder and I knew he was sobbing. I ran to him, anger and resentment gone.  
  
"Roger! Oh Roger I'm here!" I fell down beside him, cradling him in my arms. "Roger, hang on, please don't leave me."  
  
"Mark?" his voice was weak and he reached out a hand, seeming to need to confirm I was real, not a figment of his imagination. "Mark...oh god, she's dead, a note, drugs, they gave us the disease, dead, slit her wrists, god junkie, need a hit, the disease," I brushed back his hair, trying to understand what he was saying.  
  
"Roger, I don't understand, make me understand Rog," He began to sob again and I was as lost as I had ever been – I was the one who cried, not Roger – seeking out the comfort of my best friend. I grabbed his arms and with a gasp dropped them. He had blaring track marks. Damn April. Damn that bitch!. "Roger, what have you done?" he offered a feeble smile.  
  
"That's not the worst Mark...I've got AIDS," He coughed then, slumping against me as the action took the last of energy. I paused for a moment, choosing my words.  
  
"We gotta make a decision Rog, or we'll die this way," He looked up at me, hazel eyes searching me out.  
  
"I choose you Mark...I choose you,"  
  
(Present)  
  
"So remember when we were driving, driving in your car; Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk; City lights lay out before us; And your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder; And I had the feeling that I belonged; And I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone"  
  
He picks up speed in the song and his eyes fall closed. He is fully entranced by his music now, drawing the crowd along with him, teaching them, leading them, and showing them the path. The memories in this verse are by far my favorite. Loving times. Cherished times.  
  
(2 years previous – New York)  
  
It hadn't ended the perfect fairy tale ending it was supposed too. Life has a way of doing that too you; tricking you into think everything is going to be fine then quickly puncturing the happy bubble you've created. We enjoyed a few blissful months after Mimi's miraculous recovery, positively thrilled at her comeback, too awed to argue or fight. Roger was the happiest of all of us for once. He began to live again. To thrive. And as much as I hated to admit it, I was jealous. Jealous that it was Mimi and not me who had brought him back.  
  
Yes, it had been perfect. For a grand total of 3 months, 4 days we had been happy. I'm was slightly amused, and slightly perturbed that I still knew exactly how long it had been...if I thought hard enough I could probably tell you the exact hour he found her in her apartment.  
  
Mimi was dead. For some reason she couldn't stay clean. Roger's love was apparently not enough for her and I found myself wondering over and over how she could have chosen smack over him. He found in their apartment, back from a day of busking the subways, sprawled across the couch, needle in her arm eyes glassy and vacant. She had died before she could inject the whole amount.  
  
He went crazy that night. Screaming, slamming doors, sobbing, crying out her name to whoever was listening. It wasn't fair to him, to us, to anyone. I found him later a blade in his hand, razor pressed to the vein in his wrist, eyes puffy and swollen from hours of crying. I didn't think before I acted, simply threw myself at him, intent only on saving my best friend from a death I knew he didn't want.  
  
Roger fought me, punched me, kicked me, screamed at me to let him go, to let him die and I held him, held him as he called me every name under the sun and cursed my family, my life, everything about me. He sobbed on my shoulder as I rocked him, whispering in his ear.  
  
"Oh Rog, don't throw it all away...please don't throw it away. Don't leave me here alone Rog, I can't live without you. I need you Rog." The confession was startling to both of us and he looked up at me through tears that seemed so foreign to his face.  
  
"Around you I have the feeling I could be someone, I have the feeling I belong " It was as close to a love confession I think Roger ever got to someone besides Mimi. To me it meant more than 'I love you' ever could. He had admitted he needed me, and to Roger, showing any sign of weakness – needing someone – was a sin committed by the silliest of fools.  
  
Unsteady and on uneasy grounds, I reached out and pulled his chin up with careful fingertips. I met those fathomless hazel eyes with my own and slowly pulled my best friend into a kiss we had been wanting for what seemed to be a dozen years. It was slow, cautious, exploring and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever experienced. We were both breathless as we drew back, wonder sparking in both our eyes.  
  
"Let's go for a ride," I stood and extended a hand. He took it and pulled himself up, throwing his leather jacket over his shoulders. We slipped down to the car (I had purchased it soon after the original fairy-tale ending...it wasn't much but it got us from point A to point B. We'd had enough problems with ambulances) and climbed in. For a moment we were both in high school again. Back in Kent planning our escape.  
  
I started the engine (it worked on the first try for once) and we began to explore the city. Lights blew past us in liquid color, streaking Roger's hair and face in a thousand shades of Neon. He threw back his head and laughed, a sound I thought I would never hear him utter again. I could not help but join him, and we laughed and drove, singing the songs that the DJ felt fit and shared tiny kisses at stoplights. We parked near Central Park and, feeling brave, I scooted over and wrapped my arm around his shoulders.  
  
He leaned into me sighing happily, doing something that, had it not been Rog, I would have called snuggling. But as it was Rog, I was attempting to find some masculine word for snuggling when he looked up at me, hazel eyes true and clear.  
  
"I've always loved you Mark,"  
  
(Present)  
  
That was normally where he ended the song. The rest, he said, didn't fit us. So why should he sing it? That was the thing about music, he explained, it had to listen to him and fit his will. I smiled at the words flashing through my head, but the song continued. I listened to the words trying to get the message he was sending me in the best way he knew how.  
  
"You've got a fast car; And we go cruising entertain ourselves;, You still ain't got a job; Now I work in the market as a checkout guy(1); I know things will get better; You'll find work and I'll get promoted; We'll move out of the shelter; Buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs"  
  
The first line was oh-so-correct. It was our solution when we got bored, when we got into a fight and when we just became too stressed to do anything besides yell. We would climb into the faltering car and just drive. We didn't always talk and sometimes it was all we did.  
  
I didn't have a job, I was getting one though and that perplexed me. He was the one that didn't want me to get a job after all. He did work one day a week down in the convince store on the corner, pulling in enough to afford to keep his band going to and to provide our seemingly never-ending supply of, you guessed it, crackers and captain crunch. We'd even had milk last week because of his tiny job.  
  
"I know things will get better, You'll find work and I'll get promoted, We'll move out of the shelter, Buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs" The last words of the verse echoed in my head. They rang of commitment. It seemed as if he was possibly accepting that I had found work, he'd said we'd buy a bigger house – live together for longer? – move into the suburbs? Roger feeling the domestic call? I snorted slightly and sipped on the water again, having forgotten during the song how disgusting it tasted. I was quickly reminded by my taste buds (who I'm sure were thinking of rebelling) and I spat it back into the glass for a second time. The final words of the song rang in my ears as Roger wrapped up his spell of music.  
  
"So remember when we were driving, driving in your car; Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk; City lights lay out before us; And your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder; And I had the feeling that I belonged; And I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone;  
  
You've got a fast car; Is it fast enough so you can fly away?; I've gotta make a decision (2); Leave tonight or live and die this way"  
  
I had a vague recollection of another verse, but for once Roger's advice rang true. The rest didn't fit us, so why should he sing it? On stage he smiled slightly, and pushed chocolate hair behind an ear, picking up his Fender and exiting. Minutes later he walked into the bar and I knew he was looking for me. The hope and longing that was evident in his eyes almost broke my heart and the relief when he saw me was enough to warm it for eternity.  
  
All but sprinting to my table he scooped me into his arms, guitar laying forgotten on the floor. He kissed my forehead, my eyes, my cheeks and my lips, every part of me he could reach. He pulled back for a moment, hazel eyes scared once again.  
  
"Did you hear?"  
  
"Every word," I smiled slightly, taking his hand in my own.  
  
"God Marky, I'm so sorry...so fucking sorry. I couldn't think of anything but you the past two days. I'm so sorry that I ever doubted you," he drew me back into a bone-crushing hug and continued to kiss my hair. Movement caught our attention and we turned to see the bar keeper standing in ominous silence behind us.  
  
"We don't like your kind here, faggots," I gripped Roger's arm, a comment like that was a recipe for disaster. But instead of lunging towards the barkeep he smiled that crooked smile towards me, drew me in for a final kiss and said.  
  
"You've got a fast car, wanna go for a ride?"  
  
-Fin  
  
– I took artistic license to assume Roger was not female. The actual line is check-out gal, but I figured Roger would have changed it. – This line was changed to make it more personal. Roger is saying he has to make a choice to apologize or he'll die alone, without Mark.  
  
EN- Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed my first Rent fic as I had fun writing it. Please review, flames are not encouraged, but if you feel you must, go ahead...they provide me with amusement.  
  
Disclaimer: The RENT boys do not belong to me. Neither does Fast Car. I take no credit for either creation. 


End file.
